Killing is not the answer
by writertron
Summary: AU warning - aftermath of torture, death fic. Harry has come to the conclusion that no matter what the muggles have done him, killing is not the answer. ONE SHOT


Warnings: character death, angst

Killing is not the answer

by Writertron

It was an eternity before the pain receded enough for his senses to engage. A metallic smell filled his nostrils, blood mixed with the tang of sweat and fear, every breath stinging in his torn throat. He remained still, motionless like a corpse as he became gradually aware, and his brain began to process the memories and form coherent thoughts. What had he done this time? What had they blamed him for? Funny how he instantly thought of his family when he woke in pain, rather than the Dark Lord who had sworn to kill him as slowly as possible… A hazy memory surfaced: a purple face, bulging eyes, spittle flying as the mouth screamed and bellowed in rage. Redundant, he remembered, and congratulated himself momentarily. Vernon had been made redundant, a polite way of finally kicking him out of a job he had clung to for the past god-knows-how-many years simply by terrifying all competition. Of course, it had all been the freak's fault…

He tried to move, twitching his fingers, feeling them sticky against each other, carefully beginning to flex his right arm, a whimper escaping him as agony shot through the nerves. What had they done to him? He remembered the sickening sound of bones snapping, of a cane flaying skin away, of hot metal scorching flesh. _Am I even alive?_ he wondered briefly. They certainly wouldn't care too much if he wasn't. After all, he was a freak to them, dangerous and terrifying, and most definitely not human. Every instinct in them must be screaming for the threat he posed to be removed – it was no wonder they hated him so, even if they didn't understand it and blamed his freakishness and their desire for normality. Malfoy's face drifted across his mind's eye: _you're a freak, Potter._ He mentally smirked – Malfoy had no idea. Then Hermione, kind, innocent Hermione, who for all her books and knowledge and awareness – she was the only one who had noticed, after all - couldn't understand: _why do you protect them, Harry? It's not even abuse, it's torture. Why do you excuse their behavior? Ignorance is not a defence._ But it was. This ignorance, this hatred kept the muggle world separated from the wizards, and that was the only defence the muggles had.

Magic suddenly flooded his senses, washing over him like a dam had burst. He tensed, sensed it shuddering around the house, mind racing to work out what it could be. _The wards._ Shit, the wards…

Emerald eyes snapped open, ignoring the pain as light assaulted his senses, the buzzing in his ears blurring shouted incantations, the way his breath bubbled through liquid and every part of his body shrieked in agony. This had to end.

Voldemort strode into the pitiful muggle hovel, robes billowing around him, a sneer of disgust curling his lips, ruby eyes flashing in displeasure. His Death Eaters were setting up a perimeter outside, watchful for any sign of Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix. Shrieks of surprise and fear came from the front room, where three muggles recoiled from the sight of him in the doorway. The largest heaved himself to his feet, face rapidly turning purple, chins quivering in outrage, and Voldemort simply gestured. The disgustingly fat muggle was hurled into a wall. He smirked in satisfaction. The horse-faced woman was as white as a sheet, and the smaller whale was shaking like a leaf, both wide gazes fixed on him in some kind of fascinated horror. He would let his Death Eaters play with these later – maybe then the muggles would serve a useful purpose in their lives.

"Where is Potter?" he demanded, sneer becoming more pronounced at having to communicate with such vermin. There was no response. Voldemort flicked his fingers and all three writhed, screaming in pain under his silent, wandless crucio. It took so little to make muggles scream. He cut off the unforgivable. "Where is he?" he repeated. Still, nothing, only gasps for air, whimpers of fear and pain. He raised his hand again, ready to cast, only to hear something – a large something – fall down what sounded like the entire staircase. Whatever it was impacted with a thud.

There was absolute silence for a long moment. Voldemort was about to seek the source of the mysterious noise with a spell when he heard movement again, a laboured dragging sound, harsh, shallow breathing. Bloodstained fingers latched onto the frame of the other doorway into the room, and, under the Dark Lord's fascinated gaze, Harry Potter appeared, wand held in trembling fingers, oversized clothes shredded and soaked in blood, red and brown streaked all over his skin as blood dried even as it still trickled from the cuts. Weeping burns decorated his right arm, and his left – the one which held the wand – looked broken in several places. His legs were continuously buckling under him and there was blood bubbling at his lips, an ominous sign of internal damage. The emerald eyes were like cracked gemstones, agony and determination and the kind of brokenness found in those who knew they were living on borrowed time, and the creditors had come calling.

"Tom," he managed to whisper, coughing over the word, blood spraying from his lips. "It's enough. L… leave them…" The boy couldn't even get the sentence out, knees folding, sliding to the floor as he choked, breath rasping, a rattle to herald the coming of Death himself.

"Do not speak that filthy name, Potter." The Dark Lord spoke sharply, hate biting the edges of his words, but there was no masking his surprise. What had happened here? Snape had reported the brat was pampered in his muggle home, like some kind of prince… He reminded himself of Snape's unreasoning blindness towards the true nature of James Potter's spawn and thus found himself unsurprised that the Potions Master had reported wrongly. He turned his gaze to the muggles, still petrified by their own fear. Hate surged inside him. Potter was a wizard child, and they dared touch him? Potter was going to die, of course, but these _vermin_ had no right to so much as look at him. Even the Light's so-called saviour was above muggle filth. His eyes narrowed, raising a single finger, slowly and deliberately pointing it at the muggle brat. He smirked as the brat's terror increased, wheezing in terror. "_Reducto_," he whispered.

"_Protego_!" The desperate yell came from the figure crumpled on the floor, causing the red curse to deflect into the wall, blasting a crater in its surface. The intended recipient of the curse fainted, plaster dust settling on his features.

Voldemort's attention snapped back to Potter, who was coughing blood again, staining the carpet increasingly crimson. "Potter," he began, tone cutting and vicious. "I assure you that you do not need to attract my attention. I will destroy you soon enough." He stepped closer to the pathetic sight. 'Or would you perhaps like a taster? _Crucio!"_

Potter jerked as the spell engulfed him but didn't make any other reaction, instead planting the tip of his wand firmly on the floor and beginning to speak, voice halting and trembling. _"Protego… maxi…mus… eternus… f-familla!"_

"_Potter!"_ Voldemort found himself yelling in disbelief as white light spread like a starburst across the floor, lighting up each muggle like a beacon. Did the brat have no sense of self-preservation? Casting an _eternus_ was taxing for a mature wizard in the best of health: for a sixteen-year-old walking with death it was suicide. And he wasted his last chances on the ignorant muggle filth that had tortured him? He strode across the room to the brat's side, crouching over him. "Are you really so eager to die?" he taunted, grabbing the boy's jet-black hair and yanking his head up. He looked even worse up close, one eye bruised shut, skin the colour of parchment. He slipped his wand out of his sleeve and pressed it into the side of the boy's throat. "I have been looking forward to this for a very long time, Potter. How are you going to defeat me now? Who is going to save your pathetic friends?" He blinked in shock as the boy's lips twitched. Was the boy _smiling?_

"T-too late, Tom," the boy whispered. "M'already… dying. Even c-crucio doesn't…" He obviously couldn't manage the rest of the sentence, but Voldemort knew what he was saying. The brat was already in so much pain that he couldn't feel any more.

Unconsciously, his grip relaxed, and the boy slumped into him. Frowning, the Dark Lord turned him onto his back so he could see the boy's face, not noticing his own fingers betray him, smoothing the brat's hair soothingly as he choked again. "You gave your only chance of life to save these pathetic muggles, Potter. Did you know that? Did you know that you just protected these torturers from everything but a painless death?"

The boy's body convulsed weakly, Death gliding closer, reflected in the emerald eyes. "Yes…" he whispered, almost soundless.

Voldemort's fists clenched. _"Why?"_ he hissed, hardly noticing it come out in parseltongue.

Potter blinked once, then again, slower, body relaxing as Death reached over Tom's shoulder to place a hand over his heart. _"Killing… is not… the answer…"_

Death's cold fingers closed empty emerald eyes.

Tom Marvolo Riddle strode out of the house, holding his burden close, not acknowledging his Death Eater's murmurings as they hesitantly came closer, then backed away as the ruby eyes seemed to look straight through them. He freed an arm as he walked, pointing his wand straight up in the air, the Dark Mark shooting into the sky. Recognising the signal to leave, the Death Eaters disapparated, exchanging confused glances at leaving the muggle neighbourhood untouched. At the end of the street, without break his stride, the Dark Lord vanished.

_Dumbledore hurried into the grounds, the Order close behind him, running towards the lakeside where the Forbidden Forest stood closest to the shore, where a tall, dark figure stood, straightening up after depositing something on the ground. The tall figure was Voldemort, and he was on Hogwarts grounds… The Headmaster came to a halt. "Tom!" He called a challenge. The Dark Lord didn't look round, gaze fixed on the thing he had placed on the grass. Shaking his head as if unhappy about something, he crouched again, methodically straightening out the bundle, and the Order gasped as they realised it was a body, a most-likely-dead body… Voldemort took a step back, looking past the body to the waters lapping at the ground. "This was my favourite place in the whole of Hogwarts. When the sun sets the lake is like liquid fire, and the castle glows in the light. Then the stars come out and shine down…" The Dark Lord trailed off softly, looking back to the body, a more familiar sneer twisting his tone as he continued. "Not that you would care," he muttered. "Pathetic Gryffindor. Still…" He raised his wand. "Exibeo animus, aduro astrum!" Blinding light flashed, the onlookers shrinking away in shock, the older members and family heads recognising the spell as a powerful burial rite to honour the fallen. Stone and glass twisted into a glittering column, green leafy vines wrapping around the monument, symbols and pictures carved into the stone, a radiant glow like starlight settling at the pinnacle of the spire, the shapes of all kinds of creatures reaching for the light. The Order was murmuring in confusion. Who was this that Voldemort was burying? Who did the Dark Lord respect so much? Voldemort surveyed the monument. "Fitting," he remarked finally. Then he sighed, pressing a skeletal hand to the stone. Another marker sprung out, a flat surface with words etched into the stone. Dumbledore finally dared step closer, approaching tentatively until he stood beside the Dark Lord, reading the inscription aloud. "Harry James Potter. Killing is not the answer." The Order gave cries of dismay. Voldemort was motionless. "Harry…" Dumbledore's voice broke, disbelief showing. _ "_His muggle guardians killed him," Voldemort suddenly announced. "And he still protected them. There will be a ceasefire to honour the dead." Without stopping to explain, without even glancing at the leaders of the Light, Tom Marvolo Riddle, the Dark Lord Voldemort, vanished._

_A sigh of frustration passed his lips. "If killing is not the answer," he muttered restlessly into the night. "Then what is?"_

Translations: Protego Maximus enternus familla - eternal maximum protection (directed at) family

exibeo animus, aduro astru, - display soul, light the star

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